Chapter 7
1976 Words
Isaldora had been sitting before the sea of reporters for two hours, posing and answering questions. She was dressed in a fitted black high-neck top tucked into sleek tailored pants, a crimson blazer draped across her shoulders, commanding attention. Her long hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, silver-gold thread earrings catching the flashing lights.
“Ms. Aether,” a male voice cut through. “James Holton, City Herald.”
Her eyes flicked over the crowd, locking on the person who was smirking at her.
“I think no one dared to mention before,” James continued, smirking, “but none of us expected the heir of Aether to be this young—and dangerously breathtaking.”
A few chuckles rippled through the room but Isaldora remained silent, with her, 'Don't you dare get on my nerves,' look. Carelessly she looked over the reporter, who looked average, trying hard to look boyish, the kind who lived off charm and cheap thrills. She ignored the way his eyes glued to her and just gave him simple stare down.
She saw this James feeling embarrassed as he cleared his throat. “Right. Um—what I meant was—how does it feel to finally step forward and claim your place as head of Aether?”
Isaldora tilted her head slightly, the silver-gold threads dangling. “It feels,” she said calmly, “exactly as it should. This is what I was meant to do.”
James ignoring the memo in her tone, pushed forward with his cheap smirk. “Ms. Aether… for someone so young, so striking—you wear authority well. Some might say too well. Makes the rest of us wonder if it’s really business brilliance behind Aether’s success… or just another one of your charms.”
The remark created a ripple of discomfort stir through the room.
Isaldora leaned closer to the mic, voice smooth. “Mr. Holton,” she said sternly, “ Aether’s rise isn’t owed to charms or accidents.It’s owed to vision, strategy, and work that speaks for itself. If that unsettles you, I suggest it says more about your expectations than it does about me.”
A beat of silence hung in the air before another reporter rushed in. “Miss Vane,” he addressed Renna, “how are you related to Ms. Aether? Records list you as her guardian, but no blood relation. Is that true?”
Isaldora saw Renna stiffen in her spot, looking dumb—before the silence could stretch too long,
“She’s my aunt,” Isaldora said lightly, as if stating the most ordinary truth. Her gaze flicked toward Renna, a faint smile brushing her lips. “And someone I trust implicitly. She’s more family.”
She could see Renna blink, startled by her words, and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, she's my beloved niece.” Renna said smoothly, her hands folding neatly on the table. “Whom I care deeply for.”
Another reporter rose. “Ms. Aether, your company is flourishing faster than anyone anticipated. Its success has been… remarkable. What comes next? And will your aunt continue to play a role?”
Renna leaned toward her microphone first, her laugh soft, a little self-deprecating. “I’ll be staying on as my niece’s secretary. She still needs me around—or at least she thinks she does.”
The room broke into polite laughter.
Isaldora’s lips curved in a smile. “And yes,” she said, “we are preparing to launch a new branch of our perfume house—a luxury fragrance line called La Dora. You’ll be hearing much more about it soon.”
A ripple of speculation ran through the room.
When the final question died, Isaldora rose, moving to exit, Renna followed suit, matching her composure.
The cameras surged as the two moved toward the exit, each step measured, deliberate—an effortless grace that drew every eye.
Behind them, the press erupted in whispers and flashes
—
It was a weekend night, and De Mor throbbed with life—lights strobing across the haze of smoke, bodies pressed tight on the dance floor, moving like one restless tide. The bass rattled through the walls, through her ribs, until it felt like her own heartbeat. Every corner of the place was alive with heat—dancing, laughing, and shameless mouths colliding in the shadows.
Renna sat at the bar, half-turned toward the crowd. It had been weeks since her boss, Isla Aether, had officially stepped into her role, leaving Renna with little to do—except this. She didn't think Isla would put the aunt tag on her and for a second she was shocked by her gentle tone but that thought went down the drain, when she turned back to the b***h mode.
Her gaze now drifted lazily across the floor—until they caught at the far end of the floor. Some girl was practically glued to a guy, grinding, shamelessly like her life depended on it. Renna snorted under her breath. Even through the strobe, she could see it clear as day—the guy had that swagger, all loose shoulders and smug grin, moving like he was auditioning for “biggest asshole of the year.” One hand clamped on the girl’s hip, the other already sneaking lower. His mouth hovered at her throat, grazing skin in a well practiced way—like he’d done it a hundred times before and knew exactly how to get the reaction he wanted.
Yeah. Classic player. Probably thought he was the damn headline act, when really he was just background noise in cheap cologne. Please. Same old routine—handsy, smirky, thinking he’s irresistible. Bet he’s the type who calls himself a “bad boy” and thinks buying a girl one shot makes him God’s gift. Clown.
Her attention diverted from the man when the bartender slid her drink toward her, pale and fizzing, and she downed it in one go. The burn steadied her nerves. “Another,” she muttered, sliding the glass back. She hadn’t planned on staying long. She usually never did. But tonight, something restless gnawed at her chest—an unease she couldn’t shake. So she stayed.
The second glass vanished, then the third. By the time the fourth went down, she could feel the haze dulling her edges, softening her thoughts.
A short, exasperated laugh slipped past her lips as she glanced around the room. This place—this entire, overindulgent club—belonged to Isla Aether. Her boss. Her witch boss. Of course it did. Rich beyond reason, powerful beyond comprehension. Sometimes Renna still couldn’t believe her life had twisted into this. If she had never crossed paths with Isla… well, maybe she would’ve had something closer to ordinary. Instead, she was tangled in the orbit of a woman who terrified her even without trying. Isla never harmed her, but still—she scared the s**t out of her.
Renna let her eyes drift closed for a moment, lulled by the music and the haze in her head—until a voice cut in close, smooth and low, curling through her ears like smoke.
“Careful,” it teased. “You’ll miss all the fun.”
Her eyes snapped open. She turned—and froze. The same man from the dance floor, the shameless one with his hands all over that girl like he owned her, now leaned casually against the bar.
Up close, he was even worse—because he was devastating. His smile was too confident, his eyes gleaming beneath the pulsing lights.
Oh, perfect, she thought bitterly. Just what I needed. Trouble dipped in sin with a face well sculpted.
He slid onto the stool beside her, moving with lazy confidence, as if the whole bar existed just to seat him. He leaned close enough for her to catch the faint spice of his cologne, the warmth of his body against the cool air between them.
“What’s a beautiful lady doing all by herself?” he asked, voice pitched soft, playful.
Renna’s lips tightened. Beautiful lady, seriously? That was his line? She resisted the urge to snort and instead shot him a flat look.
“Maybe I’m alone because I want to be,” she said crisply, turning her head away, hoping he’d take the hint.
He didn’t. His smirk only deepened, like her irritation was entertainment. He lifted a hand to flag the bartender, and moments later a glass slid across the counter toward him—amber liquid swirling, sharp and heady.
Renna arched a brow. “You might want to be careful with that,” she said dryly. “They don’t serve the kind of liquor here anyone just… handles.”
He met her gaze as he lifted the drink, lips curving slow and wicked. “Good thing I’ve never been like anyone else.” Then he swallowed it back like it was nothing—eyes never leaving hers.
Renna’s pulse stuttered. Damn him. Show-off.
She told herself it was just the alcohol warming her veins, not the way he was looking at her—like he’d stumbled onto something he wasn’t planning on finding and couldn’t look away. His attention was hot, heavy, too focused, and it made her want to squirm.
He leaned in, propping his chin against his hand, forearm draped across the counter, the other arm sliding behind her chair—close, enclosing, his heat brushing the edge of her back.
The kind of move a cocky flirt would make. The kind of move she’d just been badmouthing him for in her damn head.
And yet… her body betrayed her, shivering at the closeness.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “a room like this could be bursting, and I still wouldn’t notice anyone else… not when you’re sitting here.”
Renna let out a short laugh, though her chest tightened. “That’s a good line. I’m sure it works on plenty.”
His mouth curved, slow. “I don’t waste good lines, sweetheart. I only tell the truth.”
The way he said it—quiet, certain—made her throat go dry. Heat coiled low in her stomach, and she hated how badly she wanted to lean closer.
“Truths, hm?” she managed, fingers brushing her glass. “And what truth do you think you see?”
He shifted, arm brushing hers, warmth radiating from him—intense, unsettling. “That you’re trying very hard not to be noticed,” he murmured, eyes fixed on her, “and failing. And it’s driving me crazy.”
Her lips parted before she could stop them. She reached for steadiness, but her voice came too soft. “You sound like someone who should be careful with his drinks—and his words.”
He chuckled low. “Careful isn’t what I came here for. But you… you make me wonder if maybe I should be.”
The pull between them tightened, and she couldn’t bring herself to move away. He leaned in, brushing her ear, hand sliding on her back, sparking tingles across her skin.
His eyes dropped to her mouth and hers followed suit. Then his lips touched hers, it was slow—until she leaned in, deepening it the kiss turned into something heated, hungry.
By the time they broke apart, she was breathless, heart slamming. His forehead rested against hers, thumb brushing her lower lip, as she bit her lower lip. She saw his gaze darken and it spread a heat through her.
“Want…” his voice was rough, “Wanna take this somewhere quieter?”
Before she could think, his lips grazed her neck, stealing her breath, making her clutch the counter.
“Yes,” she whispered, breathless but certain.
- Writer
